


Extremis

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: BDSM, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: bondage as DIY mental health. Kylo uses restraints as a way to not self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extremis

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: thoughts of self harm, thoughts of death, past childhood trauma.

Things had gone bad. Things had gone really bad. Really, really bad. Kylo Ren couldn’t remember the last time he’d screwed up so royally, and it was like there was a hole inside of his chest, bored open, and a rabid womprat dropped in the hole. Stapled shut, so the beast clawed at the insides of his ribcage. Struggling against the bones, dragging over his insides, playing him like a musical instrument, dulled only by the heavy weight of his muscle and bone so no one outside of him could hear the jagged, broken music in his frame.

His heart was going too fast. He knew that. He could count it, if he wanted to. Count the heartbeats, and know how many extra he was using up. They said most creatures had a finite amount. The bigger you were, the slower it beat, the longer you lived. From the gigantic creatures who lumbered over the land, barely noticing the change from day to night; to the smallest little mammals who flitted about nervously, darting from left to right, left to right, life to death. He thought about that when his heart went too fast. He thought about how he had only so many thuds inside of him, and when he used them all up, he would just - stop. And that made his heart go even faster, and it was a vicious circle of anxiety that he couldn’t control.

Like when he heard - true or false - that brain cells didn’t regenerate like other cells did and he spent the next two years putting his head down as gently as he could when he went to sleep and _panicking_ every time he HIT IT (which was often, he was clumsy, when he was growing) in case he was driving himself to insanity by standing up too fast and hitting a table because he forgot where it was, and whether he was going to _die_ because he would get punched once too many times in his big nose and that would be him **gone**.

Inside his mask, the air got thick and warm. It filtered, of course, but it wasn’t perfect. His too-fast breathing meant his head got light from the lack of oxygen, and he _knew_ on a **sensible** level that he was two steps (fast, long strides, could cross his whole quarters in seventeen and a quarter of them) away from full-blown hyperventilation. That was no fun. In a mask. No fun at all. The world tunnelled down to darkness and your hands shook and you couldn’t get the clasps to open and you were convinced you were going to _die right here right now curled over, knees shaking, who would even know, they would come in and find you like this after it was too late and you were in a mess of your own filth and they would be disgusted so disgusted in you and they’d send in people in hazard suits and drag your filthy stinking corpse to an incinerator because you couldn’t even die right you couldn’t do anything right and–_

He’d learned not to let it get that far. Just. He hated even having to admit that it was around the corner, but there was no one else here. No one who could put a hand on his shoulder and on his back, and soothe him. No one who would notice the way his whole body shook, because he’d pushed them all away, and retreated to his den, where he could weather out the worst of this current storm. He had to take care of himself, because no one else would. No one else wanted to, and no one else _could_.

Thumbs. Shaking, but pressing against the catches. A slow _wrrrhhhruuush_ as the faceplate lifted, and real air got into him. He put it down on the pedestal, and started to press fingers to thumbs; one after the other, counting. Trying to find a rhythm in the sensation, and finding it far too lacking. He’d never been one to find peace, or to find stability. No matter what techniques anyone tried to teach him, the _roiling noisy loud maelstrom_ was too close to his heartbeat for him to know **serenity**. 

PEACE.

IS.

A.

LIE.

But oh, how he wanted it, now.

He grabbed at his hair, and held it. Held it, until his eyes watered. If he could make it hurt enough, in just the right ways, then that would be louder than the _fear_. And no matter how many times anyone might tell him _fear is the path to the Dark Side_ , and say it like it was a good thing, he would know they had never really **known** fear. Not real fear. Real fear was _not_ something to be courted. It was something to be avoided at all damn costs. 

Fear like lying alone in your bed, with only the slightest glow to fight off the darkness around it. Fear like not being able to move an inch, because you were certain the monsters would _see you were alive_ and come for you. Fear like knowing the monsters _really were real_ because they didn’t even go when the daylight hit you. Fear like crying yourself exhausted because it was the only way to get some **sleep** , but knowing that when you fell asleep the torment would be **worse** , because in your dreams there were no rules and the monsters could pick you apart with their teeth and their claws and their bones and their words and their secrets and their lies and their truthes. Fear like knowing if you didn’t sleep that you really _would_ go mad because the nurse told you as much when your mother took you to see them because you were starting to look pale and cranky and the bags under your eyes were so big you could pack for a family of fifteen to go to Corsuscant for a month in them. Fear like if they knew the worst of it they would **take you away from her** and you would be _alone_ and the very little Light still left in your life was gone and you would belong to only the **m o n s t e r s** and they would lick you into their own kind and no one would recognise you because you would **become one** and you didn’t want to be a monster you wanted to be good you wanted to be GOOD **YOU WANTED TO BE GOOD.**

They didn’t know fear. They knew the keen little scratch of it, but they didn’t know the _terminal wound of it_ when it punched a hole right through you that never really healed and all you could do was pack the gap with whatever lies and false smiles and **becoming stronger** that you could find. They didn’t know how it could make your whole body drench in sweat from head to toe, and how you might wet the bed in panic, or how you might drag the sheets to the laundry in the middle of the night so no one knew your shame and throw them in and put your head on the machine as it worked because it had a rhythm and you didn’t, it had an order and a balance and a beginning and an end and _you didn’t_. 

They didn’t know what fear was like when you became the thing you hated. 

They didn’t know.

Fingers on thumbs was nothing like enough. Distant, through leather. Like he was at a remove, and that was deliberate. It seemed like a good idea when it started, keeping himself from reality. Locking himself in his little black cloud of self-determination. Seemed like a bold and aggressive statement, to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps. To present a face he chose to the world, to _be_ Kylo Ren. 

But Kylo Ren was nothing, and nobody. He was an un-person. He was a face without eyes, a voice without heart, an act without meaning. Noises uttered, not words. Kylo Ren was the nightmare that stalked around a child’s dreams, the monster-man with his potential for _harm_. Impossible to humanise, impossible to empathise, impossible to connect. A monster was a monster was a monster and without the face, the eyes, the voice, the touch… he was as deadly as a droid programmed only to kill and that was terrifying. Terrifying.

He struggled to pull off the gloves, to look at his hands. So pale. So very pale. He could see the blue-blood running through the backs of them, see the bones under the skin. In the face, in the hands, in the collarbones, in the feet. Closest places of death to surface, closest places of _outside_ to **in**.

Short, hard nails dragged along the back of one hand. Just to feel. Just to feel. Just to feel _anything_ against his skin. In their wake lay tiny white-scorings, that then gave way to pink marks where the blood flushed to the injury, took the necessary ingredients for repair. Sometimes you had to do that. You had to break a bone healed wrong for it to heal right. You had to push the body to remember to fix itself, because it thought it was and it _wasn’t_. He knew the marks were nothing, not really. Just a little agitation, in the grand scheme of things. He was more broken than that would take to heal. Much, much more broken.

Hands into fists. Hands. Into fists. Pressing the fingernails so tight in that the pain sparked like blossoming flowers in summer, opening up to the sun, to the light. Dark, dark, dark light. There was a certain _purity_ in it, all the same. Pain was just the body’s reaction to intense stimulus, and stimulus was another word for _touch_ , for **contact**. It warned you that you were going too far, but sometimes you had to push through it. Like when you were training your body to take more, to do more. When you forced yourself through the existing barriers so you could run further, jump higher, last longer. It wasn’t bad, in and of itself. It simply was.

Everything sensible felt pain. 

Kylo bit the inside of his lip, too. Full lips, too full. Like everything about him: _too large_. Ears. Nose. Lips. Body. Feelings. Everything was **swollen** and _gross_ and **not right**. He bit down until his cheeks shook, and he tried - at the same time - to find some kind of peace inside. No.

No.

Not peace. Control. Control control control control was fine it wasn’t Light it was just - it was - focus - focus - not Light not Jedi it was fine he could do this it would not mean anything he could do it he needed to do it because he was going to put his fist through something soon and then he wouldn’t stop because when he started he started and the impetus the momentum was so so so so so powerful and he charged headlong _screaming someone stop me please someone stop me please someone meet me, force for force, blow for blow. Equal and opposite and strong and stronger, maybe. Somewhere I can rail against, something I can batter out my need on, where I can go until it’s all gone and then I’ll feel alright because I’ve done all I can I know I’ve done all I can I know I’ve given all I have and it will either be enough or it won’t be enough and I will know who and what I am and where my end is and I can rest and rest and it will be–_

He wanted to scream. He couldn’t. The noise in his head louder and louder, and this escalation wasn’t working. A flare of power and everything not held down went _flying_ into the nearest immoveable object. Not enough. Not enough. The room was insensate, and it was no witness to his efforts. It was as unfeeling as the galaxy was. 

The Force. The **Force**. It didn’t care. It didn’t care how it had stolen into his body and ripped everything he wanted from him. Promised him POWER and GLORY and _how to be a hero_ and _how to make them proud_ and _how to make them like me, like me - LOVE ME_. It moved through all things, but it moved as unjudgingly as gravity did. It didn’t CARE. Not for KYLO REN and not for–

**TAKE**

**IT**

**AWAY.**

Kylo stormed into the bedroom, barely able to feel his feet on the floor. He was getting to that point where he wasn’t sure he was even in his body any more, like he was either not-real, or the world wasn’t. Like even pain wouldn’t be enough, because the pain eventually got to be _s o m u c h_ that your brain shut down. They said things about that, too. Said you could only process **so much** and then you either closed things off or your endorphins kicked in or something. Survival instinct.

Kylo wanted to survive.

He had always wanted that.

He had always wanted to stay alive, even though the world hated him, and he hated it. Maybe it was a masochism of its own, or maybe it was that **stupid voice inside that wasn’t the monster voice but which scared him more that said there was still hope still hope** or maybe it was the monster because the monster knew if he gave up on that tiny sliver of need, of longing, of wanting, that he would be nothing. He would be nothing, he would be over. Without that craving, that longing, that desire he would just become a blunt object. There would be no more emotion left to tap, and he would be rendered mute and immobile and useless. It would be easier if the hope went and he could just become that. Become a weapon, a tool, only. Not a sword with a soul, just an edge to cut through the world.

Kylo didn’t want to die.

He didn’t know what else to do, just that - just - he knew he needed to be _held_. He craved it from his crown to his toes, and it hurt so much to know it couldn’t happen. He needed someone to hit him. Punch him. Force him to accept arms around him, and hold him through his struggling. He needed them to need to hold him more than he needed to fight. He needed them to _see_ that when he screamed at them to **go** he meant _stay_. He needed them to understand that his _fear_ was that they would stay.

But not forever. Or maybe forever. Both were terrifying prospects. Opening up, to be left alone once more, with the monsterunderthebedwhowashimself, or for them to stay and see _hewasasbrokenashewasandwouldneverevereverbefixed_. He would hurt them, and he would do it even if he didn’t want to. And who would even love him? Who?

No one. That was who.

Kylo needed it to go. Needed. Needed to flare out all of his emotional overload against something that could take it, and nothing could. Needed to fight someone stronger, who wouldn’t destroy him. Needed to find a Master who would show him how to control himself. He needed someone stronger, someone who wouldn’t flinch when he _pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed_ because if he didn’t push how would he be sure they would **always push back**?

And there was no one. He’d made sure of that. Driven his uncle away, his uncle who was so disgusted with what he’d done. Driven everyone away, and thrown himself at the feet of someone who promised who promised who didn’t deliver and left him forever _needing wanting craving lonely hungry sad alone_. He didn’t even know if he **could** feel any differently to how he did. Maybe not. Maybe that was his curse. He was born to forever have a hunger for a thing that didn’t exist, or couldn’t satisfy. 

All he knew was if he didn’t _stop it right now_ it was going to end up with him destroying half the ship. And then he’d have to face the remaining people with the knowledge that _they knew they knew how broken and afraid and destroyed_ he was. And that was worse. Them **knowing**. He had to do this where no one could see, because no one would understand.

He had no one to fight, so he fought himself. It was only right. He was torn between two poles anyway, so what difference did it make if he turned his anger _inside_  of himself?

Kylo reached into the anger and the pain and forged heavy shackles of the ones inside his mind. Let them become a tangible thing, and let the _weight of them_ sit on him physically. It was just another way to do this to himself, and another way to find some - brief - release.

Around his throat, pressing so hard he tilted his head up and closed his eyes at the way it felt. His breathing slowed, as he fought to get it in past the pressure of it that had his head tilted to the sky in wordless prayer. Around his shoulders, down his arms, spreading them wide and far from him. Away from his core, away from his insides that growled and clutched. Fear sparking when he did this, fear of being vulnerable to attack, laid bare and open for anyone to stab. Here, in his rooms, in his own company. Fear. Of himself. He started to struggle, and the chains wrapped tighter and spread him wider. 

Down and down, around his core, around his body, coiling like snakes about his legs. He let the Force pull his ragdoll body wide, let it tug him until his sinews, his bones, his skin screamed at the stretch of it. He let it pull him so hard it hurt, so hard he knew where every bit of him was. He let it bend him like a band over-stretched, and he vibrated with the need of it.

He could fight. He did fight. He fought against his own control over himself, and he knew it was only temporary. His body was not his own, his mind was not his own. He was not his own. He belonged to another, another who didn’t care that he was _hurting_ so badly that messy, angry, hot tears streamed down his face as he broke himself apart, just to keep going. He wrenched and writhed, and he wound himself tighter as he did it. He felt things _give_ and **go** and it was a release all of its own. He felt them bright and urgent, and it was glorious and it was perfect.

He couldn’t move, not any more. He was as taut as he could go, and he didn’t want to let up. It hurt, it hurt, but it hurt so good, so loud, so right. It hurt and he felt held, and he felt safe, and he felt loved. He cried until he was exhausted, and he cried until it was a mess, and he cried until his mind could no longer hold himself up.

The fight went out of him, and Kylo Ren dropped to the ground, to his knees. He dropped to the ground, and he wept.


End file.
